Chapter 3 #2
But Lady Tascott managed to break it. “You are not to walk into traffic! Do you understand?”
“I’m not planning on it, but Apollo seems to have plans to push me.”
“What utter rot! He’s the perfect gentleman. He’s simply not pleased to be without his birthright. You have no idea how difficult it is for a young heir to be talentless. You could never understand the pressure. We are living with a guillotine blade above our heads.”
“Apollo’s excuse is believable,” Diana said. “He is prettier than the glamour, and he would never consent to marry me as I looked before.”
“It does not matter. Someone will find out soon enough.” Fear had etched itself into the lines of her aunt’s face.
Diana felt her own fear must be etched into her bones.
It ran a rhythm through her veins. Beneath her chair, Merlin whined.
Her aunt had the right of it. Someone was bound to notice, sooner or later, that the Marquess of Fordham had no transcendent talent.
When the old marquess had died, his magic had not found a new home within his grandson, the new marquess.
Apollo had inherited everything but what mattered most—magic.
And that seemed to be driving Apollo mad. The opium, the mistresses, the threats against Diana’s life. Apollo might try to actually kill her to keep from marrying her. Surely not. She wanted to believe he would not. Needed to believe it.
Diana reached for her pile of books a little ways down the table and took one from the middle.
The Flow of Magic and the Male Line. She’d memorized every word of it since her grandfather’s death, but still she had no answers.
It was possible the magic had skipped Apollo because it should have moved from their grandfather to Apollo’s father before coming to him.
Or because her own father had been older than Apollo’s.
But the transfer of magic from a man to his grandson had always succeeded in the past.
Diana shut the book and reopened the one in her lap.
The Rise and Fall of Greek Sorceresses. A folded bit of newspaper she’d used to mark her spot fell out, and she unfolded it.
The date revealed it was two months old, but the subject of the article that took up most of the pages had yet to be resolved.
King William IV had heirs, none of them his own children, and the most direct heir—a woman.
A young girl, the Princess Victoria. Gossip said the king liked her but planned to make her cousin his heir.
Her male cousin. Few women had held the crown in England, and it had been almost three hundred years since a queen had possessed transcendent talent, too.
Queen Elizabeth. Talent had died out entirely in women soon after her reign.
Diana studied the sketch of Princess Victoria in the paper. Her profile facing the profile of her male cousin beneath the very handsome sketch of King William.
How did the princess feel about her uncle’s indecision? Was she irate or secretly relieved?
In the princess’s position, Diana would feel… ha, as she did now. Like running away.
At least the potion worked.
“Is something amiss, Diana?” Lady Tascott asked, much too sweetly.
“No, aunt.”
“Then do not groan.”
Had she groaned? Marvelous. “Apologies.”
“Though I do not blame you. What with the state of the world these days. Magic dropping out of the bloodlines of the best houses, titles stripped, upstarts profiting off potions in broad daylight! Intolerable.” She sniffed.
“Why, they’ve even let a”—she lowered her voice—“common alchemist into the ballrooms. The king gave him a title. Can you believe it? Having a Royal Alchemist is one thing, but giving him a title? Hmph. And after his father went entirely mad.” She shook her head, sighed.
“It is a true shame. Perhaps King William feels some kinship with the alchemist. Mad fathers and all.”
“I met him last night.” Not meant to sound so dreamy. She cleared her throat. “The new Baron Knightly, the alchemist. Not his father.”
“No!” Another point of toast fell to the tablecloth. “Was he crude? Was he an absolute bore?”
“He was quite civilized.” If stubborn. “He deserves the title, you know. The summoning stone he invented is revolutionary.”
“Hardly, I’m sure. Did he threaten you? Oh!” Her hand fluttered at her breast. “Thank God Apollo was with you to keep you safe. My son is nothing if not a true chivalric hero.” She sighed then chomped into her toast.
Diana had seen Apollo only once last night.
From behind a curtain with a certain alchemist so very, very close.
He’d been so hot, and so hard. The lightest brush of his fingers against her skin had seemed more a sin than Apollo thrusting into his mistress in a mostly public room at a ball.
She’d felt the alchemist’s muscle, been singed by his heat.
He’d left her weak-kneed and breathless.
Places in her body she never thought much about had been… glowing. She’d barely kept her control.
Miss Maple should have told her the potion would affect her, too.
She must have gotten some on her skin, ingested some, when he’d spilt it.
Well, she’d spilt it, technically, knocking him over.
Falling on him had been like falling onto marble.
He was that hard, that big. She’d heard all alchemists were.
That they honed their own bodies as they honed their metals.
That their natural temperatures were hotter. She’d never believed it.
Until last night. She’d almost been tempted to accept his proposal. He’d offered a way out of her marriage to Apollo. Yet… to marry a man who’d only asked because of a potion? She could not take advantage of anyone like that. He would have regretted it come morning.
How mortifying. Diana had love-drugged a man, a stranger, a genius!
An incredibly handsome genius. The ink drawing of him in the London Times had not done him justice.
They’d made his nose too big and his brows too heavy, as if they’d been trying to fit him to their image of a crude laboring man.
He’d not been crude. He’d been… magnetic.
His dark hair cut short but tousled like he often ran his fingers through it.
His brows dark and thick but not low and brutish like the drawing.
His shoulders might be the broadest set she’d ever seen, and his thighs…
Her mouth dried at the memory. So very… thick. She knew well. She’d fallen atop them.
She took a large pull of her cold tea. She must have ingested some.
Love potion was potent stuff. It worked, and that calmed her racing heart, made her want to sing.
What would Lady Tascott say if Diana pushed the jams and teapot aside and did a jig on the table?
Much. She’d say much, all of it shocked and disapproving.
So Diana tapped her feet beneath the table.
The potion worked, and if she found no way out of the wedding, she could at least avoid the marriage bed.
Lissy, Apollo’s mistress, would appreciate the continued attention.
“My lady,” the butler said from the doorway, “the coach is ready for you.”
“Thank you, Jenkins.” Lady Tascott stood and gathered her reticule and hat. “Come along, Diana. Madam Godfrey awaits.”
Diana would rather not. But she placed her book in her reticule, gave Merlin one last pat, and followed her aunt out the door.
* * *
A half hour later, they stepped onto Bond Street, bonnets shielding their faces from the bright sun. And a few steps after that, they were inside Madam Godfrey’s.
Diana breathed in the bustle, the color, the sounds.
Her wedding gown was horrid, but this shop…
this shop was almost as electric as Lady Guinevere’s.
Did they work hand in hand? In the corner, a shopgirl poured potion across a bolt of white fabric, and it burst into bright, berry red.
At the large window display, another shopgirl emptied a potion bottle on the glass, and it frosted over despite the spring heat on the street beyond.
She styled a mannequin in winter blues and thick furs behind the frosted window.
“I cannot understand why,” Lady Tascott hissed, “Madam Godfrey flirts with such disreputable trends. Gowns potioned to appear like glamours. It’s abhorrent. A wicked lie. The women of our family never sank so low. Witchery. Hmph.”
“I find it rather exciting.” She’d not known potions could create illusions very like glamours until they’d begun shopping at Madam Godfrey’s.
The new dressmaker had become a necessity once they’d realized Apollo would not be able to glamour their gowns.
“Do you know, women throughout history have experimented with potions for a variety of reasons.”
“This is no time for one of your lectures, Diana.”
“Women have been killed for it, too.”
“Diana! You do say the most morbid things.”
“It’s not morbid. It’s history.”
“And this is not a university. It’s a dress shop. Now smile and look pretty, my dear, and remember your grandfather’s final request.”
To marry Apollo. Grandfather had known. She’d seen in it his eyes as he’d gasped his final breaths—shock, fear, determination. All while Diana’s soul seemed to catch fire, to suffocate her, growing bigger than her body until she thought she might burst.
Her palms warmed, and she tugged at her gloves. They were firmly in place, but best to be careful.
“Lady Tascott!” Madam Godfrey bustled over, hiking her skirts as she wove through the patrons.
“Miss Chester. Welcome, welcome. You’ll be so pleased.
I’ve finished, and we’re ready for a fitting.
It’s perfect.” She led them to an empty back room.
One wall held a large gilt-framed mirror, in front of which stood a wide flat platform.